It's Like Working With Children
by mktoddsparky
Summary: /Dean isn't sleeping, Cas is AWOL and Sam's tired of no one listening to his prayers./ Following Meg's death, Sam does damage control and sends a prayer Castiel's way. Post 8x17. Three-part.


_"With your perfect posture-_  
_still a crooked spine,_  
_while the flume you protect starts to leak._  
_Can't buy pride with good intentions._

_You can't break this spell-_  
_you can't save me._  
_You can't right my wrongs,_  
_you can't part the sea..._  
_Heaven wasn't built to hold me."_

.o.

**It's Like Working With Children**

part _one_ of _three_

.o.

Sam isn't stupid.

He isn't clueless about the trials. Okay, maybe trying to hide the fact that he has been coughing up blood because his lungs are on fire was a tad idiotic. He'll admit that. But as sweet as Dean's gesture to carry him is, Sam is perfectly capable of putting one foot in front of the other, even if his knees shake. Sam understood exactly what he was getting into long before slitting open the belly of the hellhound Crowley sent. He'd anticipated Dean's (somewhat understandable) bitch fit; and, well, as far as physical endurance is concerned, Crowley calls him "moose" for a reason. Right?

Sam's not clueless about Dean's mood swings either, as a matter of fact.

Dean's humming along to _"Goodbye Stranger"_ with a far-away look in his eyes. His mouth is tucked into that smile Dean wears whenever he's trying to keep Sam from seeing how crushed he is. But Sam can see it. He always sees it. But because Dean's a stubborn bastard who refuses to talk about his feelings, all Sam can do is pretend not to see how Dean's fingers quiver around the steering wheel, how Dean has the faint look about him which suggests he wouldn't be entirely against running the Impala off the side of the nearest bridge were Sam not on board.

Except Sam isn't going to pretend this time. He's tired of acting as if there isn't a huge elephant in the room, trumpeting at them. Preparing to get his face bitten off, Sam turns in his seat and fixes Dean with Puppy Dog Eyes #3.

"So, did Cas tell you where he was going with the angel tablet?" Sam asks.

Dean tenses as soon as Sam says Castiel's name. Moving his hand up to stifle a rough cough, Dean mumbles, "That would sort of defeat the purpose of him leaving, don't you think?"

"Well," Sam pushes, "I just thought he might want our help hiding it, is all."

Dean barks a laugh and his eyes flash with something like hurt, if Sam had to guess. He's pretty good at guessing.

"He's a wavelength of celestiel intent," Dean mumbles, voice faintly mocking before it falls to a mumble. "We're the last people he'd come to for help."

"That's a little unfair, don't you think?" Sam's question isn't just because he's tired of pretending. Dean and Cas may have the whole profound bond thing going on, but Castiel is Sam's friend too and it's unnerving to see the angel behaving so erratically. "He helped us with the Apocalypse, he saved us _both_ from eternal damnation. Hell, Dean, I think Cas has earned prime membership in Team Free Will by now."

"Sam..." Dean's tone has an edge to it now, a warning. His fingers have tightened on the steering wheel. Sam doesn't think that his brother will actually hurt him, especially not after the whole trial business, but Sam cocks his shoulder in such a way to protect himself. Just in case.

When Sam opens his mouth to push Dean just a little further, he catches a glimpse of what's right in front of him. Dean's shoulders are slumped wearily, shuddering just slightly as though Dean is trying to reign in some kind of break down. His face is bent so that the light catches Dean's eyes; they're surrounded by dark bags and the look in them is so lost that Sam has to keep himself from hugging Dean. Normally Dean keeps his face blank for Sam's benefit. Sickeningly, it has been drummed into the elder boy's head that his feelings, his dreams, his life comes in second to Sam's. As wrong as that is, Sam can't seem to reach far enough into Dean to change his mind. Instead, he pushes Dean in little ways, trying to get him to blow off some steam before he combusts.

"I'm sorry Cas left," Sam murmers, changing tactics. Dean mouth begins to quiver. "But maybe he was in some kind of trouble, maybe he needs our help. Let's just try and think of the places Cas might be and we can work from-"

"Sam," Dean snaps, slamming a hand down on the steering wheel. Sam jumps before he can stop himself, his muscles twitching with adrenaline, and tries to think of something to say to fix this because obviously he screwed things up even more. Before Sam can begin to come up with something, however, Dean's face crumbles, just a little. "_Cas_...said he needed to keep the tablet away from me." The angel's name sounds like liquid pain on Dean's tongue. "He doesn't need or want our help, so just...just leave it."

"Dean, I-" Again, Sam's brain fizzles out. All he can do is stare at Dean with what he hopes is a sympathetic expression.

Trust is everything to Dean and he already loathes himself enough without anyone else aiding him. By disappearing with the angel tablet - even though Sam is sure that Cas has his reasons for doing so - Castiel has helped to reaffirm _exactly_ why the hunter believes he isn't worth anyone's time. Beyond that, for it to come from the one person Dean trusts above all else, even more than Sam in certain situations, is devastating.

"Sammy, I can't," Dean begins, his tongue lolling raggedly from his mouth as he tries to speak. He clears his throat and takes a deep breath, staring out the window for a long moment. Slowly releasing his left hand from the steering wheel and bringing it up to cup his left cheek, Dean strokes the stubbled skin there absentmindedly, his eyes still frighteningly vacant.

When at last he looks back, Dean's expression is hard, hidden behind a mask of solid brick. Only his eyes are the same, dull, lit with a hurt Sam can't hope to extinguish. "I can't talk about it."

"But," Sam tries again.

"Drop it." With that, Dean pulls the next right, wheels thudding on the pavement as he pulls to a stop in front of a three star motel. His voice is flat when he says, "Here. We can stay here for the night." Before Sam can respond, Dean slides out of the driver's seat, the door slamming behind him as he heads toward the front desk to rent them a room.

With a sigh, Sam untangles himself from the front seat and lopes over to the back of the Impala. The least he can do is help with their bags.

As Sam reaches out to pop the trunk, a wave of pain shoots up the entirety of his arm and he lurches forward with a gasp, bracing his free elbow on the trunk. Black spots dance in his vision for a moment and that (unfortunately) familiar burning sensation climbs up Sam's throat. He's forced to cough, spewing little beads of blood across the top of the Impala and the shaking arm holding most of his weight.

When at last the quivering and burning subside, Sam's first thought is that he has to clean this up before Dean gets back. Already he can see his brother reaching out for a key with a green ribbon looped through the hole. Digging into his pocket, Sam pulls out a tissue laced with dried blood and quickly runs it over the Impala and his arm. His mind continues to (graciously) provide images of exactly what these trials could do to him. Several of the options include his skin melting away, to Sam's horror.

"Hey, Sam, you -" Dean cuts off as he approaches. Quickly, (too late,) Sam wrenches his head up from where he's been staring at his twitching fingers and tries to look innocent. Apparently Sam's innocent face is the same as his _"Oh, God, I'm a guilty coward"_ face, if the suspicious way that Dean is staring at him says anything. "What's wrong?"

"Nothing?" Sam says quickly, smiling and popping the trunk of the Impala. "Foot just fell asleep."

"Bullshit," Dean mutters under his breath but, to Sam's relief, he follows his comment up by heading to the other edge of the trunk and reaching for the bags. Tossing the key to Sam, he asks, "Open the door to the room, yeah? I don't trust you with my stuff."

"What, do you think I'm gonna try and steal your collection of _Busty Asian Beauties_?" Sam jokes, trying to keep his gait smooth as he heads over to the door marked with the number_ 3_. His heart is still pounding against his chest and the longer that Sam studies the ground beneath his feet, the more convinced he is that it means to swallow him whole. The world tilts alarmingly and he stops to catch his breath.

"I wouldn't put it past you," Dean retorts, shoulder nudging gently against Sam's as the older hunter lugs their stuff toward the room. He sounds normal but Sam knows that all he has to do is look into his brother's eyes to tell what's really going on.

"Hey, genius." Sam turns his head, vision breaking apart at the edges, to see Dean standing by the locked door with one eyebrow cocked. "You gonna unlock this?"

"Yeah," Sam says, hurrying to his brother's side. "Right. Sorry." He goes to insert the key but his hands are still shaking and _damnit_, this was supposed to be a burden he carries alone.

"Sure you are." Dean's tone is amused, bordering on biting, but the gentle hand he places in between Sam's shoulder blades is somehow the one reassurance Sam didn't realize he needed.

.o.

Dean fusses over Sam that night and as much as Sam hates being treated like an invalid, he allows Dean to prepare him a cup of soup and tuck him into bed so that he can watch _Casa Erotica 6_.

"You're not actually serious about this, are you?" Sam asks, fighting the need to roll his eyes as a blonde woman bends over to pick up something her master has dropped, revealing her nicely rounded ass.

Dean doesn't say anything for a moment, eyes locked on the woman's cleavage, and Sam worries that his brother actually _is_ serious. What happened to not watching porn around other guys?

Just as the woman seats herself on her master's lap and begins peppering his bald scalp with kisses as she apologizes for being so clumsy, Dean snorts and flips the channel to something about gun control. Relieved, Sam snuggles into his bed's pillows, tucking the covers up to his chin. Above them, a fan rotates lazily, looking as if any moment it will break from the ceiling and crash down onto Dean's thighs.

Blinking back sleep, Sam looks over at his brother. Dean is sitting on the bed with John's journal open on his lap, his right knee pressed to the screen of Sam's laptop. He appears to be studying something careful, his eyes narrowed to beady slits.

"Dean, you gonna go to bed?" Sam asks, reaching up and rubbing his eyes with the back of his hand.

Dean mumbles something that sounds like a yes and then reaches out to type something on Sam's laptop, his eyebrows drawing together high on his face.

Sam smothers a yawn as the room begins to fade away. Just as he's about to close his eyes, Sam catches sight of the clenched muscles in Dean's neck and sighs. He wishes he could say something to fix this but it has nothing to do with him. Dean's a big boy. Once he gets off his high horse, Dean'll pray to Cas as he normally does (all the time, on hunts or at the table in the library, his face bent over a dusty tome, whenever he thinks Sam can't hear him) and the angel will land well within Dean's personal space and they'll argue and then everything will be better. Those two always manage to find each other, no matter what.

"Dean?" Sam's voice is barely coherent this time.

"Hmm?" Dean spares him a quick glance before going back to the laptop, no doubt to find a case that will take his mind off the angel gone rogue.

"Thank you," Sam murmers, pressing his face into the pillow and inhaling slowly. "For taking care of me, I mean. Means a lot." His eyelids begin to lower of their own accord but he manages to catch a glimpse of the way Dean's face softens.

"You're welcome, Sammy," Dean murmers affectionately. Sam can hear the smile in his voice.


End file.
